


Clothes Make the Man

by merisunshine36



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Mommy Issues, Orgasm Delay/Denial, past M/Bond, past M/Silva (Tiago Rodriguez)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merisunshine36/pseuds/merisunshine36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every morning, M dresses Q in the finest things money can buy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clothes Make the Man

**Author's Note:**

> Also contains some D/s overtones.

M gives a final tug on the knot on Q's tie, then brings the zipper of his newest cardigan to the center of his chest before sitting down to look at her handiwork. "Turn around," she says, and draws a circle in the air with her finger. It's the third time she's had him change this morning.

He does as she tells him, then reclaims his place on the opposite end of the couch, legs stretched across the space between them with one sock clad foot resting against her thigh. When M first moved into her predecessor's home she'd wanted everything removed, but she'd kept the couch around. It was new then, but has been broken in over the years, and collapsing on it after a long day on her feet is like stepping into a fond embrace.

"Well?" he says, "do I pass muster this time?"

"It depends on whether you can make it through the day without loosening your tie." He thinks she won't notice, but she always does.

She'd bought the sweater for him the other day, and she'd known it would be perfect the moment she laid eyes on it. A bit of color in a building full of suits in black and grey, although nothing that would make him stand out too much. Just a touch of the schoolboy aesthetic, enough to make people turn their heads as he passes in the halls and wonder, perhaps, what a cane would sound like as it lands on his backside.

Q pushes at the hair falling across his forehead, then frowns at his reflection in the mirror that sits just behind her. "Don't you think a haircut is in order? I'm beginning to resemble a sheepdog."

"Don't be silly," M replies, and tucks a curl behind his ear. He's wanted to cut his hair for some time now, but she won't allow it, not yet. "You look quite handsome." She doesn't miss the way his eyelids fall shut as she traces a line down the curve of his jaw, the inky black lines of his lashes fanned out against his cheekbones. He likes it when she dotes on him, when she dispenses motherly kisses and those rare compliments he craves.

The early morning sun throws pale fingers of light over the detritus left over from breakfast; traffic sounds filter in from outside. The old clock on the wall chimes eight a.m., and yet another morning has gotten away from her. She knows she should be on her way, but duty and sacrifice are dull company in bed. Spending time with her boys is one of the few pleasures this life affords her.

"I've been late twice this week and it's only Wednesday," says Q. He makes no move to get up, even though M's driver will be around to pick her up at half-past and he likes to be off long before then. He waits for permission to pull on that ridiculous parka he likes to hide himself in. It's the only thing M let him pick out for himself--he insists it's the practical choice. If she had her way, she'd dress him in a wool coat that was cut to fit his narrow form, something in a dark charcoal or soft, cloudy grey.

"It's good that I'm the one in charge, then, isn't it?" M leans forward to place a hand between his thighs and cups him gently through his trousers, the warm, heavy weight of him stiffening almost immediately.

At this point, Bond used glare at her, his blue eyes dark with emotions he didn't want to put a name to. Tiago just liked to bite. He'd leave a line of tiny marks along her collarbone that she'd spend forever trying to hide. But Q always goes quiet, disappearing into a world that's only his. He presses his lips together and digs his short nails into his thighs in an effort to remain still. When she pulls her hand away his hips jerk upward, searching for lost sensation.

"If I'm correct, you spent nearly four hundred pounds on these." Q tries to keep his tone light, but there's a slight catch in his breath when she begins undo his zipper. "I wouldn't want to ruin them."

He lets his thighs fall open as she reaches inside and takes him in hand, enjoying the way his cock begs for attention and the warm wetness that begins to leak from the tip and slide between her fingers. A few seconds more and the tiniest damp spot appears, nearly invisible against the red and blue plaid.

M really doesn't want to make a mess of things; it took her forever to settle on this particular ensemble. Her mind made up, she disentangles her fingers and carefully does up the zipper once more. When she offers her hand for him to clean he does it without question, the flat of his tongue dragging across her palm in broad strokes. When she has her first coffee of the day in the office, she'll still be able to smell him on her fingers--faint, but present.

"M, please," he says, desperate. "You're not playing fair."

"When do I ever play fair? And no touching once you're outside, either." She abandons him on the couch and goes to gather up her laptop and keys. There's a brief twinge in her knee when she stands that she chooses to ignore. "Come back tonight--seven? No, eight. I've a meeting with that insufferable bureaucrat Mallory, it's liable to run late."

A dark red flush starts at the base of Q's neck and begins to creep upward. He blinks at her from beneath glasses that she thinks are too large for his face, making all his features look slightly out of proportion.

"I'm a fully grown man, now. I don't have to put up with your games. " Anyone can see that there's still a sizeable tent in his trousers. People are likely to notice.

M hides her surprise. Q hasn't used that tone of voice with her since the Met's e-crimes unit dropped him off on MI6's doorstep some years ago, a skinny young fellow with grubby trainers and an ego to match his intelligence. She must be getting lax in her old age.

"Well--there's the door, quartermaster, I believe you know how to use it."

He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, but she's prepared to wait him out. M can be very patient when she needs to be. After she's put on her coat and gloves and given him time to stew, she sits next to him on the couch and leans slightly in his direction, expectant.

There's a slight puff of air against her face as he comes closer, then hesitates. But as sure as the sun rises, he ducks down to press a quick peck on her cheek with lips slightly chapped from the harsh winter wind. It's inescapable these days, creeping under the doors and rattling the branches against her window at night. Soon she'll have to get the extra quilts out again.

"Now there's a good boy," M says, and gives him a firm squeeze on the knee. "Until this evening, then."

She has no reason to expect he won't show. If there's one thing that's held constant over the years, it's that her boys always come home.


End file.
